Down in the soulís wine cellars
The casks of virtue brood.
Theyíre aging through the centuries,
Like deep Alaskan crude.
The casks of sin, however,
Are daily tapped and flow,
Filling carafes, beakers, and jugs,
Giving each face a glow.
Itís quite a ways below ground,
The soulís wine cellars dwell.
The casks of sin and virtue stand
So close, itís hard to tell
Which, when you tap its fullness,
Comes spurting an arcing stream
Into a thimble or a cup,
Into this world or a dream.
But when he takes a sip,
God, the sommelier,
Knows at once the vintage broached
And tosses it away.